Heir Apparent
by Xerios
Summary: Companion story to File Recovery - Detailing the story of the former head of Decepticon Special Operations after his defection.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer : **I don't own Transformers, though that would be pretty damn awesome if I did.

**Credits :** In this story I will be referencing Bumblebee's origins as developed by Karategal in her stories, as well as the destruction of the Youth Sectors, coined as 'Floatila' by Lady Tecuma in 'Sparks and Plasma'. I will also be using the concept of 'carrying' as developed by Litahatchee in her story 'Night Fire', as well as referencing her depiction of the Floatilla Massacre. These ideas are used with permission. If you wish to use them, **do not** ask me. You must obtain permission from these authors. That said, I reccommend that you read each and every story mentioned here, especially if you're a fan of Ironhide/Chromia, sparklings in general, or Bumblebee.

**Note :** This is an OC centric story. You will need to read 'File Recovery' to understand some of what occurs, as it deals with Nightblade, his crew, and his short time amongst the Autobots.

**Heir Apparent**

Prologue

_Fire rained down from the sky as several heavy batteries rattled off at once, the sound of them deafening to the audios even at such a distance. As the shells fell around him, blasting craters within the already pitted surface of the road, he dove into the half burned out shell of an old corner shop. For a moment he paused, revelling in the fact that he had managed to cross the street unscathed, but the glow from even this small triumph faded as the cannon fire ceased only to be replaced by the drone of jet turbines cutting through the dust strewn air._

_Closer and closer they roared, circling, searching the ground below for survivors._

_He stayed where he was, thankful that the roof was still intact, blocking him from aerial surveillance, but the second he felt the tickle of scanners washing over him, he bolted. Debris kicked up as he ran, cutting through into the back alleys, away from the scanners, away from the drone of Seekers flying overhead. The sound grew duller with every corner he turned, every wall put between himself and the corner shop._

_He grinned, casting a glance over his shoulder, slowing his pace from mad dash to that of a mild jog._

_And then a pain, needle sharp and spreading, dug through his chest. It burned so fiercely that his neural network stuttered, causing his balance to shatter even as he tried to keep on running. He fell forward, momentum making the fall slightly uneven. His left shoulder hit the ground first, digging a small rut into the rubble even as the rest of him collapsed._

_He tried to push himself up, but the pain was too intense for him to coordinate his movements. He shuddered, coughing as his intakes took in more dust than air. He felt more than saw the energon drip from his mouth to the ground, realizing that whatever had hit him had ruptured something vital._

_Slow footsteps graced his audios._

_They weren't cautious, but simply methodical, as if the walker was merely out for a stroll, taking his time with his approach. They were heavy, and more importantly, they were alone._

_He wasn't a threat, not anymore._

_He tried to activate his communication lines then, to hail a friendly frequency, to call for help, but all he got was static and a dark chuckle of amusement from his attacker. The lines were jammed, he should have known that, but the pain brewed panic in his processor and panic tended to cause irrational thinking._

_The walker appeared within his field of vision, or at least his pedes did. There was a pause, as if his attacker was contemplating what to do next. A scant few seconds later a pressure bore down on his helm and the burning, parylizing pain cut through his systems again. He shrieked, vocalizers unable to sustain the pitch of his agony very long until the shorted out._

_And then the pressure abated and his attacker stepped away only to crouch down in front of him._

_Now he saw the midnight blue armor, the way the legs were constructed, the red glow as the optics stared down at him, and most importantly the energon coated blade as it was lowered into view. His attacker very carefully held the blade with one hand, while reaching into a subspace pocket to pull out a small stained but otherwise clean rag. Then, slowly and deliberately, he began to wipe the blade clean._

_First one side._

_Then the other._

_His vision crackled, and the pain no longer seemed to be much of an issue, in fact, most of his body had gone numb. Warnings kept flashing as he watched the energon soaked rag traverse over the edge of the blade again and again. His sensors, internal and external were shutting down._

_One by one._

_The rag vanished bag into it's compartment and the blade, now clean, was lifted away from his field of vision. He heard, quite sharply, the sound of it being secured back into place on its owner's frame. No sooner had this scant noise leak through his processor, did the declaration of an immenant shutdown flash across his optics._

_Stasis lock set in and with it, darkness_.


	2. Angled Descent

**Disclaimer : **I don't own Transformers, though that would be pretty damn awesome if I did.

**Credits :** In this story I will be referencing Bumblebee's origins as developed by Karategal in her stories, as well as the destruction of the Youth Sectors, coined as 'Floatila' by Lady Tecuma in 'Sparks and Plasma'. I will also be using the concept of 'carrying' as developed by Litahatchee in her story 'Night Fire', as well as referencing her depiction of the Floatilla Massacre. These ideas are used with permission. If you wish to use them, **do not** ask me. You must obtain permission from these authors. That said, I reccommend that you read each and every story mentioned here, especially if you're a fan of Ironhide/Chromia, sparklings in general, or Bumblebee.

**Note :** This is an OC centric story. You will need to read 'File Recovery' to understand some of what occurs, as it deals with Nightblade, his crew, and his short time amongst the Autobots.

**Heir Apparent**

Chapter One - Angled Descent

Optics opened slowly, dark metal ceiling panels filling his view. He remained still, unmoving, counting the rivets holding the roof in place. There were none missing, an even twenty-six from his current angle on the berth. Silence, excepting the background noises of the ship sounds, the hum of the engine, the near inaudible sifting of the coolant system as it flowed through walls, the creaks of the vents channeling the interior atmosphere.

Silent in that he was the first to awaken from recharge, the others still in stasis on their berths, alone in their quarters. His own systems hummed, faint and steady. Spark pulsing, energon flowing, a hundred percent operational but cold.

Always cold.

He shuttered his optics again, slowly, deliberately. The rivets stayed in his processor, counting themselves all over again.

Twenty-six, all in two neat little rows.

Twenty-six, two less than the number of blades he tended to carry.

Twenty-six, two more than the number of jobs he'd been assigned.

Twenty-six, divisible by thirteen, two, and itself.

No recharge the entire flight, just staring and counting and replaying that scene, in the rub_ble, as the blade sunk in so smoothly, not quite piercing the spark chamber itself but cutting through the connections beneath it. Slicing open the fuel tank, severing the primary and secondary neural columns, crushing the coolant lines that ran alongside both. Technically more efficient than a quick and clean kill, as there would be no use for the body afterwards, nothing to salvage, nothing to donate for vital repairs._

_Blade coated in energon, withdrawing only to clean it off, his victim gurgling on the ground._

He opened his optics again, gaze flashing now to the door, auditory sensors picking up the slight fluctuation of the engine as it passed from autopilot into manual control. Another of his crew had awakened, though he knew it could only be Exe. If silence was a color, her armor would be coated in it. The only noises he had ever heard her make were deliberate, consciously thought out and so very, very efficient.

They were approaching Kolkular, he surmised. The hull rattled slightly now, indicating an adjustment of trajectory. If he really cared he could call up several algorithms to calculate exactly how far out they were, what altitude, and an arrival time. He didn't care and he didn't need to, that faint twinge in his spark told him all that he needed to know.

He had surmised long ago that there was something wrong with him. This was not a surprise, as most of those who hailed from Halicon had one or two issues, but this he felt was different. He had observed through the vorns that the vast majority of bots seemed to cling in groups of two or three. Friendship, perhaps, but slightly deeper. It seemed almost as if these groups were linked in some subtle way that he could not understand. He had mimicked them, finding himself a group of bots to form a small circle of friends, only to be pushed to the side and forgotten, spark feeling colder and colder.

There were no connections, no threads linking his spark to those of others. He could not feel them and they couldn't feel him. Not even his caretakers, Nox and Sonata, had held any sort of line into his spark.

He was alone.

This was not precisely correct. At the very least he was forced to revise his observations on such connections, to edit what had been fact throughout most of his life. The Decepticons had come to Halicon, bent on recruiting as many bots as they could in their war against the Autobots.

Several hundred vorns ago, he'd been wasting time scratching graffiti into the rusted walls of an alleyway, skulking in the slums of Halicon. He had heard the rumors, the tales of the war devastating the planet below. Much like most of the denizens littering the moon, he hadn't cared enough to give it much thought. It didn't affect him so it mattered very little.

And then, like the snap of electricity across an open circuit, he'd felt that twinge wi_thin his spark._

_Frozen on the spot, head tilted to the side, he caught a glimpse of the procession. Heavily armored mechs, several of them, marched up what amounted to the main avenue. They were big, but not quite so imposing as the mech that they flanked. Silver armor, smooth and unblemished, shining as if from a recent wax. Head held high, red optics blazing with a mixture of arrogance and pride._

_**Megatron.**_

_He had followed, trailed after that squad in the haphazard, skirting in and out of alleyways. They entered the Citadel, where Nox ruled simply by controlling the supply of energon, where it was so easy to sneak in through the side doors. His home, comfortable through familiarity, cold through lack of empathy. Peeking out, listening in, determining through process of elimination where that sudden and now incessantly bright connection came from._

_Those red optics, flicking over his hiding place, considering. An imagined or unimagined faltering in their glow, a faint response in the connection. Indecision not his own, and then nothing. The link was still there, just empty, devoid of even the tiniest trace of emotion._

The link was still there.


End file.
